


Enough Bones Are Cold

by shinyhuman



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Building the Coalition, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Lexa's Ascension, Pre-Canon, conclave, young lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyhuman/pseuds/shinyhuman
Summary: What started this tradition? Thinking of its origin brought Lexa back to the arena, guiding her legs where the remaining nightbloods stood. Some nightbloods bitterly theorized Titus’s lessons of duty surrounding the origins of the conclave were a lie. Instead, at the death of the first commander, it was greed, not duty, which prompted slaughter. If that is the case, she wondered how many of them ran. Luna in particular was fond of that theory. How, she would always ask out of Titus’s earshot, did greed turn into duty? Lexa rarely bothered herself with hows and whys. Things simply were.





	Enough Bones Are Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings! I have heavily revised this piece since posting the first (and only) chapter about a year ago, so I have reposted it here. I want to dig deeper into Lexa as a character, including her relationship with Costia, the previous commander, and one of the greatest accomplishments of her leadership: the coalition. I have not yet decided how many chapters, but five seems like a good number for now.
> 
> Due to a lack of background details, I have included original characters. My aim is to have this make as much sense in canonverse as possible, but there are bound to be mistakes. (i.e. ages, characters, minimum inclusion of Titus, minimum Trigedasleng because I'm bad at it, etc). 
> 
> The title is a lyric from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gf1h2PMPCAo  
> Check if out if you want.

“Run.”

Lexa almost laughed at the absurdity of Costia’s suggestion. Run. She considered it, if only because of delicate fingers smoothing her hair, if only because her clarity was fogged the the sweet scent of lavender, of Costia. _Run._

What if she did run? A swift betrayal to her people, a life of training and dedication tossed aside, wasted. _Run_ —if anywhere, to the riverlands, filled with cowards, outcasts, and exiles. She ached for the security of Costia’s bed, her smile, her wild hair, for a long life. _Run._ She ached to be a coward, to succumb to the smile and plea of a lovely woman. Her weakness.

“I must fight,” she measured her breaths, drawing on strength reserved for the conclave. “It is my duty to live or die today.”

“What about the kids?” She said, wide-eyed, exasperated. Lexa half expected her to challenge the Flamekeeper himself to a duel. “Ali’s only twelve—they’re making her fight? It will be slaughter!”

Lexa blinked back tears. Ali was thoughtful, fierce. Of any of the initiates, Lexa thought her most worthy of the commander’s spirit—except in combat, where her youth made her sloppy and unfocused. But only her youth. “The _nightblida_ under ten will watch,” she said. “The others are old enough to be called to command.” Her own conviction surprised her. 

Costia scoffed. “What a waste. They take the most powerful and throw you in a pit like dogs. And all of you can read and speak the mountain mens’ tongue! What a waste.”

“It is a test of duty.” Lexa found Titus’s words running off her tongue. Duty. She drilled the word into her soul, a way of making room for the Spirit, should it seek her as a vessel. “As _heda_ , I must be able to do anything for my people. Now, I must do this.” _Heda_. Voice of the Spirit. _Heda_ was more than a mouthpiece, _heda_ served as a vessel for its wisdom and strength.

Costia spat. “Titus has you trained.” Lexa excused the venom corrupting her words, thickening her throat. She swallowed. Costia was strong, smart, brazen. As children, she swam against the flow of the river, tearing up stones and shells, grasping at branches. She did not take to helplessness well. Acceptance was out of her reach. 

“I must be trained to attract the spirit,” Lexa replied. It was cheeky, but Costia’s scowl softened.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her fingers resumed running through Lexa’s hair. Lexa savored the affection, even as it was accompanied by a rush of apologies. “I’m sorry.” 

Anxiety twisted her stomach. Lexa swallowed, quelling the intensity of the familiar sensation. “I threw up when Anya told me he died.” Lexa found herself revealing weakness to Costia, again and again. She laid herself bare before her, giving her everything. It was nice. “My body was light, like I was floating, thinking about the conclave, about all the lives I would have to take if the spirit chose me. And if it didn’t—”

“The fight is never over,” Costia murmured. “It continues, Spirit after Spirit. When you are chosen, Lexa, end it.”

Lexa met Costia’s eyes and saw fire instead of a warm brown. She was serious, making a demand of one who might become _heda_. “ _If_ I’m chosen,” she corrected. Then, “It’s impossible, anyway.” Some traditions are in place for a reason.

“Nothing is impossible.”

Lexa chuckled, a hollow bark at the back of her throat. She said, “I want to stop talking about this.”

Costia nodded, her hands twisting locks of Lexa’s hair around her fingers. “Whatever happens, nothing will be the same.” Lexa almost chastised her for ignoring her request, but realized how desperately they needed to talk. Costia needed this, especially if the Commander’s Spirit chose another initiate. 

“If I become _heda_ , I am still yours,” she reminded her softly. “That will be the same.”

“Oh,” Costia raised her eyebrows. She teased, “Have you told Titus?”

Lexa chose to play dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“‘Commanders are always alone,’” she mocked Lexa’s mentor in a low voice, “‘Costia is a distraction, Lexa.’” She tugged a little at her hair, but Lexa managed to keep her expression stoic. 

“Titus is a man of duty,” Lexa said. It was truth, not judgement. She could work with truth—bend it, build it, make it. 

Costia frowned. “Would you oppose him?” Doubt thickened her voice, turning it sour. She misunderstood.

“If I am _heda_ , there is no opposition,” Lexa said carefully. Whatever his opinion, Titus would respect her word. Her duty to her people came first—this conclave was proof of it. 

Costia relaxed, pressing her lips to the inside of Lexa’s wrist. She drew a trail of warm kisses up Lexa’s arm, each marking her with a glow of heat, each a separate sigh released on her skin. She paused when she reached the death marks curling around Lexa’s bicep. “After the conclave—” She paused when Lexa tensed, choosing her words carefully. “Will they reach your back?”

The black marks curled and twisted over each of her biceps, forming intricate webs. Most of the lines were tattooed separately, yet she remembered all of them. Receiving a death mark is always an act of mourning, a way for warriors to grieve for lives lost and lives taken. Only the spirit of the commander finds life after death. If she were _heda_ , would she add death marks after the conclave? One of her peers asked Titus once, too afraid to ask the commander himself

“It is a personal choice.” She echoed Titus’s answer to Costia. “The Commander often takes so many lives, the marks of death become cumbersome.” 

Only a few times did she notice the former Commander add death marks, yet he had so many. Lexa was once afraid of him, of the power he wielded. Costia’s father was one of those marks, a man who died in the name of a commander’s duty. His nails were ripped out, his flesh burned, his skin lacerated, until the Commander’s knife quieted his heart. “He deserved it,” Costia always said, and maybe he did, but that was not the reason he died. 

The Commander took Lexa aside to remind her that death does not always come at the end of life. “She will never be the same,” he eyed Costia. “This mark is hers,” She remembered the shape of it, a slow, incomplete circle. “because I failed. Acknowledge your failures, Lexa. Only then can we grow from them.” 

“Will you?”

Lexa bit her lips. Her hesitation made Costia frown. “I’m sorry.” Lexa sighed, rubbing her temples. Her back itched at the thought of adding deathmarks after her ascension. Would it even be hers? It was just as likely to be someone else—most of the _nightblida_ were capable warriors, all worthy of command. “I can’t think past the conclave.”

Costia nodded. “This doesn’t seem real.” She pulled Lexa into her arms, rocking her gently. Her voice wasa low purr in Lexa's ears. She reminded her, “Breathe.”

The reminder was nice, until a sigh shuddered through her body. She leaned into Costia’s embrace, her lips pressed against the rough fabric of her tunic. “I don’t want to die.” Her confession, muffled in Costia’s shoulder, was so faint she couldn’t be sure if Costia heard. The grip around her tightened and Costia kissed the top of her hair. 

They sat, still, until the ache in Lexa’s bones and joints overwhelmed the serenity of Costia’s arms. Duty. The word surfaced in her consciousness, stretched her legs, and granted her the strength to separate herself from her lover.

Costia fought her immediately. “Lexa—”

When the door to the room swung open, Costia choked on her words. Her grip on Lexa tightened, fingernails scraping her skin through her sleeve. “Don’t leave.” It was a desperate plea. Lexa understood—Costia had to say it. Costia had to do what she could.

"I must do this," she repeated gently, "You must let me." Lexa took Costia’s face in her hands, her thumbs drawing slow circles over her cheeks. She pressed her lips to Costia’s forehead. “I love you.” She stayed there for one, two, three measured breaths, pretending it was a lifetime before she pulled away. 

Anya placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go.” Her jaw set in a grim half smile. 

Costia cried. “Will you go to the conclave?” Lexa asked.

“No.” Through tears, anger strengthened Costia’s resolve. “I can’t watch you die.”

Lexa said goodbye. She left Costia there, sitting at the edge of their bed with curled fists, loose hair, and glassy eyes. Every bone in Lexa’s body was a magnet to that place. With each step, she waited for her body to burst with longing. She found as she walked that the pull became weaker, and she gathered strength in the knowledge of Costia's safety. 

Anya guided her to the throne room, where a wooden casket sat at its center. Healers wrapped the commander’s body in cloth, but Lexa could picture him despite it - his eyes closed, his beard long and speckled gray, and his face still bearing the jagged scars from his own conclave. Lexa could not remember it, but it was the same year she was discovered and brought to Polis. Lexa wondered what it would look like if she ripped off the cloth - she heard his bones had been shattered.

Anya did not cry. He was her brother, yet her stony expression kept tears at bay. Lexa mimicked her. Her expression must betray nothing. Yet, it was he who taught her how to wield a sword and he who insisted that all warriors, not just nightbloods, must be fluent in the Mountain tongue. He died retrieving books written in it, deep within the tombs of the old world. He did not die in combat, yet he died a warrior, his bones snapped under crumbling concrete. “Their histories belong to us all,” he told the _nightblida_ before he left. “We must cherish them. Our children must know them.”

Lexa caught a tear with her wrist before it fell past her cheek. Some of the other nightbloods, mostly the young ones, lacked her composure. Their sniffing filled the room. Titus tsked them, Anya ignored them. 

Lexa marveled at Anya’s strength when she brought the torch to the body. The cloth took the flame, making a trail along the corpse. The smell of it filled the air. Smoke funneled upward out of the open tower, twisting in ribbons. She watched until the ceremony was over.

“It’s time.” 

It was Anya. “Are you afraid?” Her voice cracked. Her hand was still warm from holding the torch. 

“I knew this day would come.” Lexa feigned calm. Her heart raced. “Always.” She could not remember the first time she learned what a conclave entailed. The knowledge was as much a part of her being as knowing how to run—she could not remember learning, but it was necessary for survival. Costia's voice reverberated through her consciousness: _Run_. 

The ghost of a smirk played on Anya’s face. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Of course I am.”

Anya regarded her with a strange look in her eyes. “Whatever happens, kid, I’m glad I chose you as my second.”

Anya’s second. The day that title became hers flourished in her memory as they walked. 

“Up.” Anya twirled the tip of her sword inches from Lexa’s face. “You’re _nightblida_ , aren’t you? Why aren’t you better?” They clashed in every way; her patience challenged Anya’s impatience, her calm, Anya’s fervor. They learned from each other and became better for it.

“It is okay to be afraid to die,” Anya reminded her. “We all do, eventually.”

“What if I am called to lead?” Lexa demanded. “I am also afraid of what that means.”

Anya pursed her lips. “Costia will understand.” She tried to quell Lexa’s fears, but it was a prayer, not fact. “She must.”

Lexa bit her tongue. Blood pooled in her mouth, a metallic reminder of words said and not spoken. 

“When you told her,” Anya said quietly. “What did she say?”

Lexa picked at her sleeve. The threads on the cuff were already loose. “Costia,” she savored the name on her lips, light and sweet. “Told me to run.” The memory was faint, as though this morning were years ago. She was trying to erase it from her memory. 

Anya laughed. Her smile was infectious, and Lexa returned it. Strange, how Costia provided a sense of peace even at the threshold of death. “Of course she did. And you thought about it, just for a moment, didn’t you?”

Lexa considered lying. Under Anya’s gaze, she was transparent. “Yes.” She took a breath. With the same resolve, she repeated the words she told Costia. “But my duty as a nightblood comes first.”

Anya stared at her, an eyebrow raised. “You’re ready.”

“What do you mean?”

She licked her lips. “Floran,” she referred to the previous commander by name. “He started talking like that before his conclave. Hell, maybe you all do it.” A smile played at the corners of her lips. “But I’m a bit biased.”

“How did he feel, before his conclave?”

As they descended the final flight of stairs, Anya bit the inside of her cheek. “Right about now, he started to cry. And then he stopped—and did what he had to do.” When they reached the heavy wooden door, Anya placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Let’s see this through.”

When the door opened, sunlight filtered in. Lexa took a deep breath. “The day is so beautiful,” she murmured. Her black leather absorbed the warmth. Beads of sweat collected at her hairline. When a pair of crows flew overhead, she wished she was one of them.

A crowd had already gathered at the city’s center, where the conclave would take place. Traders and visitors from other clans were sprinkled among Trikru, who had traveled to the city after the commander’s death. Over the course of the month, clans would weave in and out of the city to pay their respects to the old commander and pledge fealty to the new commander. 

For some, the conclave was a spectacle, but to many, it was spiritual. Warriors, merchants, and children alike painted their faces with coal and rubbed red dye in their hair. Some murmured prayers under their breath as she passed. War drums beat from among the crowd. Lexa was glad for them. Just as they do during battle, they steadied her heart, and allowed her to even her breathing. This is a battle, a quiet part of her thought. She quelled it immediately. She was not dueling enemies. This is not a battle, this is duty. 

When she and Anya entered the clearing at the center of the arena, not even the drum could drown out her heart. She swallowed as she took her place at the rim of the arena. Her vision was swimming, her head floating in clouds.

Anya pushed a waterskin into her hands. Lexa drew three long gulps. Anya raised her eyebrows. “Good thing I didn’t hand you wine.”

The other eight initiates filtered in until they formed a semicircle, facing the empty throne. Lexa was only sixteen summers old, but she, Ali, and Luna possessed composure. Nara, the oldest of them at twenty, fought and failed to hold back tears. She had witnessed Floran’s conclave. She talked about it when others asked, but always hushed, and never around the Commander. She was only seven at the time, but she remembered his final victory with excruciating detail. Lexa turned to the youngest initiates—Ty, Raun, and Aden, all around Nara’s age during the last conclave—they would only be watching, but would they remember what they saw today?

When Titus began to speak, her body buzzed, light as air. “The conclave,” he began, projecting his voice, “is a test of duty, strength, and wisdom. Each of these are tenets of the commander. From the first commander to the successor chosen today, the spirit of the commander lives on. It will be their honor and their responsibility to lead our people.” 

This is Titus’s third time giving this speech to a group of initiates and the citizens of Polis. How much has changed in the world, between the time of the first commander and now? It was known, the first commander’s enemy was sickness and chaos. Just as many perished from poisonous air as war. Even Earth was an enemy, and a powerful one. 

_Your fight is over_. The first commander uttered those words to her warriors, children, and enemies as they perished. It was decades ago, yet they were still comforting, infused with relief. Death brought peace.

The first commander also fell from the stars. It was myth, surely embedded with lies, yet Lexa yearned for it to be true. Perhaps there was a passage back into space. She wondered what dangers waited in the void. 

“You will duel to the death.” Titus was nearing the end of his speech. “There will be five rounds. I will draw your names at random.” The arena, much of the city, really, fell silent as he drew two names from his pocket. “Luna,” he read, “And Luke.”

Lexa’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Luna and Luke were brother and sister. They had shared a womb. Luke held Luna’s hair as she vomited at his feet, retching as the arena widened for them. It stretched on. Lexa willed herself not to follow suit. Luna wiped her mouth clean as a warrior stepped up to her, offering her a sword.

After a deep breath, she drew it, as Luke did opposite her. When they turned to face each other, they charged.

The fight was decided quickly. Luna was always a superior fighter, whereas Luke found his passion in healing and gardening. He was fastest at creating poultices and setting broken bones, and always knew which tea would alleviate any ailment. Yet, the commander’s spirit had no desire for a healer, and Luna drove her sword through his chest. She cried with him through the pain, and stopped when he fell silent, her face blank as stone. The bloody blade fell from her hand, clattering in the dirt.

Luna stepped forward, back to her place in the semicircle. Lexa knew her well, and saw despair slip through the cracks in her demeanor. Luna did not breathe with the drums, her chest moving slowly, nostrils flared. There was a part of her that was lost. When healers carried Luke’s body from the arena, placing stones on his eyes, Luna did not look. Lexa felt for her—the weight of his loss sagged all of their shoulders. Yet it was inevitable—they were all prepared to bear it.

“I will never kill again,” Luna swore under her breath. They were empty; Lexa put no weight in them. They were either a lie or a death wish. 

Costia chose this moment to surface in Lexa’s thoughts. Should Lexa perish today, how deep would grief cut her? She ached to think Costia would feel any pain from it. Yet, she must be prepared—the life of a nightblood is always short. Always. Even most commanders lived only a few years after their conclave. Floran’s thirteen years were an exception, and the number of initiates were a testament to that. An unfortunate one. 

“Ali,” Titus said moments later, softly. “And Aren.” 

The initiates stepped forward, the difference in size between them laughable. Ali was a tiny thing, the youngest, and drew her sword in a flash of fury. She was lithe and intimidating, like a cat. Aren was more like _pauna_ , a wild ape driven by instinct. Their fight was more intense and less quickly decided than the previous, sparks showering around them from their swords meeting midflight. 

Then, Aren made a mistake. He twisted too slowly, and Ali pounced on the opening. Her eyes widened when she did it, sliding the blade into his stomach, the hook on her sword pulling the guts out. She had seen battle before, but only as an archer. Lexa didn’t think she’d ever had a messy kill, especially not her friend. It was accident—his stomach pooling in the middle of the arena. She knelt away from him, retching on the ground, her knuckles and lips drained of blood.

Lexa watched her, until her own name rang through the silence. “And Nara.” 

Before taking her sword, she took Ali’s arm and led her to the other initiates, pressing her lips to the top of her hair. At the tip of her tongue was, “You did well.” But she could not say it. It was too much.

Turning back to the arena, she drew on strength to ease the bubbling in her stomach. Part of Aren was still smushed into the arena as when she approached the warrior. He offered her her sword, still in its sheath. Sucking in a breath, she drew it as she had a thousand times before, sunlight catching the steel in a fiery glint. Twisting the blade in her hands, she turned to face Nara. 

The despair, anger, and helplessness present in Nara before was gone. She was ferocious, like an animal, reduced to instinct. It was true that Nara was a fierce warrior. Lexa had seen the muscles underneath her armor, toned, sculpted, rippling with strength. She had watched Nara lob heads off bodies, three in the same swing. Unlike Ali, she was experienced. Unlike Luke, she was born for war.

Nara charged, gripping a sword as long as her body.

Lexa lifted her own to block, stumbling as she did, a millisecond too late. They had skirmished many times. Unlike meeting an enemy on the field, they had nothing to hide from one another. She shook the ache from her bones, and Nara recovered just as quickly. 

Nara swung again, her weapon making her slow and heavy. Lexa dodged, jabbing at her leg in the same movement. The gash was long and shallow, soaking black leather in black blood. Hissing, Nara kicked her, boot thudding against Lexa’s chest. 

Air left Lexa’s lungs, snuffed out, and she struggled to breathe. Nara moved around her body, positioning herself to strike. Lexa tried to breathe again, her chest vibrating, wheezing. She held tight to her sword as she lay on the ground. Nara lifted her sword above her head. Lexa’s lungs seemed to unfold, taking in a little more air. 

The sword was coming down at her. 

She needed more time, time to unfold her lungs, time to even her breath. War drums rang in her ear, too fast for her lungs to catch up. She rolled to the side, choking on her breath, dust settling on her tongue. Nara’s sword smacked dirt, the unexpected collision jolting her arms. Lexa gripped the blade of the sword with her right hand, holding it steady as she took Nara’s life with her left. Her palm, split open by the blade, stung. Her lungs unfurled fully; she took a breath, savoring the air. 

Nara lay limp beneath her, eyes focused far away. Lexa’s hand was warm and wet. She was still standing in the middle of the arena when Titus called the final names. She didn’t hear them, but she watched the healers carry Nara into the sea of bodies, wondering where they were bringing them. 

Nara was dead. What a waste. What started this tradition? Thinking of its origin brought Lexa back to the arena, guiding her legs where the remaining nightbloods stood. Some nightbloods bitterly theorized Titus’s lessons of duty surrounding the origins of the conclave were a lie. Instead, at the death of the first commander, it was greed, not duty, which prompted a fight to the death. If that is the case, she wondered how many of them ran. Luna in particular was fond of that theory. How, she would always ask out of Titus’s earshot, did greed turn into duty? Lexa rarely bothered herself with hows and whys. Things simply were. Perhaps that was why she was Titus’s favorite student. 

Ali looked at her with wide eyes. They were all covered in blood, focused on the drums, steadying their hearts. “I don’t want to do this,” she confessed, softly. It was a forgivable confession, only because she or Lexa would be dead in an hour. 

Lexa’s face grew hot, her eyes glassy. Then run, she wanted to suggest. Perhaps they would go together. But they would be traitors. Nothing was important enough to betray their people. Not even their own lives. “We must,” she replied. “And there is honor in it.”

“If we get matched,” Ali said, “Kill me.”

“The spirit will choose, not you or I.” Lexa swallowed. Her grip on Ali’s shoulder tightened. “You are worthy of the blood. It is likely you are worthy to rule.” 

When the surviving initiate joined them, his opponent being carried away, they turned their attention to Titus once again. Perhaps the event was taking a toll on him, for his skin seemed grayer, his voice rougher. Lexa wondered how long this would last; many of the others were already bleeding, skin torn, bones broken or wrists sprained. It was worse than battle, for they knew each other well - each weakness exploited, duels won on skill rather than chance or surprise. 

The second round was worse than the first. Ali lost, horrifically, her confession weighing on Lexa’s shoulders, somehow heavier than the rest. When there were four of them left, Lexa’s name was called once more. 

She stepped to the warrior again, matching his strength as she drew the blade. It had been cleansed in the soil, yet it felt heavier, weighed down for the first time with the lives it took. When she turned, Luna was not there.

Her heart thumped wildly. Titus spun to face the remaining initiates. “Where is Luna?” He demanded. They each faced forward, remaining silent. None of them knew. It was likely they were lying. Run. If only she had taken Ali with her.

Titus was fuming, blood wetting his lips from biting his tongue. “You,” he spat at one of them. “Tell me where she went, or you will duel in her place.”

The initiate stepped forward, still silent, and drew Luna’s sword. 

“She is a traitor of the blood,” Titus reminded him, “Not worthy of your protection.”

He had drawn the sword. Lexa didn’t wait for him to speak, and they clashed, a shower of sparks. Lexa quickly overwhelmed him, her blade crunching his ribs and protruding through his stomach. She was ready to be done. The blood under her skin burned white hot, not with power or greed, but something else. She turned to face her final opponent, not bothering to sheath her sword or wait for her name.

The opponent understood, stepping forward, that she had already lost. The weight of the sword sank Lexa’s shoulders, her fingers slipping on the bloody handle. Yet she hoisted herself up, put herself back together, and felt Nara’s energy running through her as she charged.

Her opponent was worthy, blocking her, throwing her slightly off balance. She repaid the favor, smacking their swords together, applying pressure until the sword jumped out of the opponent's hands. 

It clattered on the ground, several feet away. Lexa blocked her off from it, reigning her in. When the girl lunged for the weapon, Lexa struck her. She rolled her body over, driving the sword through her chest like a stake. As her opponent drew her last breaths, ragged, gasping, desperate, Lexa knelt beside her. “Sleep, _nightblida_ , your fight is over.”

When she stood, all those encircling the arena knelt, like a great wave. She’d seen the ocean once, with the other nightbloods, waves taller than the Polis tower collecting in the sky and crashing on the horizon. She didn’t feel as powerful, even as Titus stumbled to his knees, a mixture of sadness and pride on his face. 

They seemed a great distance away. She was alone at the rim of the arena, where the nightbloods once stood. It didn’t seem real, but they were all dead, their spirits erased from the earth. Where were their bodies, when their blood stained the ground she stood on?

Anya stepped forward, offering the commander’s sash, hands turned upward. “May I, _heda_?” After a nod, she strapped it on, the crimson fabric rough and heavy around her shoulders. When she looked out into the crowd, who stared at her, reverent, she saw girls as small and wild as Ali, men as quiet and inquisitive as Luke, and many others who possessed the luck to grow old. 

If the commander’s spirit was not yet within her, her core was making room for it. All around her, she understood the terrible truth of survival and the cost of war. The citizens of Polis and the forest—her people—knew the same tremendous grief that encompassed her seven times over. 

“ _Heda_ ,” Titus addressed her, head bowed. “Would you like to get your wounds dressed?”

“No.” A bruise was already pooling at her chest, her cuts beginning to scab, and she was sure one of her wrists was broken or sprained. She was alive, and could bear her wounds long enough to respect the dead. “We will prepare a ceremony for the seven initiates first.”

“And of Luna?” Titus pressed, “She is a traitor. She must die.”

“No,” Lexa said again. “Let her grieve, for now.”

She sheathed her sword and clipped it to her belt. “Your wounds, _heda_ ,” Titus drew attention to cuts along her arms and torso, where black blood pooled in the fabric. Her hand stung also. “I can fix them before the pyres are ready. There are seven bodies, it will take some time.”

“Titus—”

“This is my duty as Flamekeeper, _heda_. I must.”

“Very well.”


End file.
